


whiplash, the walking dead.

by dewitts



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Closeted Character, Grady Memorial Hospital, M/M, Muteness, first draft, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9488222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dewitts/pseuds/dewitts
Summary: rest in pieces, piece of mind. someday we will reunite...





	1. breathe

**_WAKING UP TO_** a world of cleanliness wasn't a familiarity he had felt in almost two years. Since he was in the early years of his twenties and fire tore through his home - home was no longer a word he tasted.

Everything was bitter and poison, leaving a pain above his brow.

Isiah mustered enough strength to twitch small muscles that ran up his arm, moving sporadically under the scratchy white sheet. Lower jaw tucked under the fabric, turning his aching neck somewhere towards the darker parts of the room.

The second thing he noticed was a sharp pain at the top of his hand, playing like the strings of an instrument every time he moved his fingers.

He didn't feel the dirt caking his skin, the sun beating on his shoulders. Isiah felt the crooked bedding that the hospital had provided. Sleepy eyes staring into absolutely nothing, with weak eyelids flipping up and down at each passing thought he could bring to himself. Anything to get the cogs working again.

Anything to get moving again. And Isiah had been trying so hard to wake up, from whatever bright dream his mind saw that he had only just realised they were open the entire time.

Staring at the pale ceiling above where he lay, mouth agape and eyelashes flickering.

He used every ounce of effort inside himself to lift his lift arm in front of his view.

A needle stuck into it, connecting to a tube that leads to an IV. His gaze curiously followed each plane of the room to try and woo some sense of footing, but he failed.

He didn't know what he was doing in a spectacularly clean room, in that moment in time. With a large gown fashioned over his body, and multiple pangs singing up his body. Each joint and muscle felt bruised, the sheer gravity around him pressing into every single one.

The sound of a clock was a sound he had once only heard in his dreams, one he yearned for.

And with each tick, the cogs in his own self-seemed to beat faster. Each time it echoed, across the flat plain walls, he breathed in.

He remembered that it used to be so hard to breathe. It was a weakening sense, that made him feel childlike. He was being thrown into a time of being five, with dirt reaching his knees and fingers clutching the grass as he could not breathe.

Another sound came to his years, a foreign click that was followed by soft patters.

"Isiah?" A soft sweet voice filled the air, along with his hoarse breath entering his body at way too fast a pace. He urged his eyes to try and find who was talking, but his body would not let him.

"Isiah?"

His hands clutched the sheets, as his ribs felt like they would concave. Exhale was not an option as he inhaled repeatedly. The light only getting brighter.

Each and every sense tingled up his arms and legs, with a white hot pain. All senses adding up to a feeling of complete hopelessness he could not pin down and squash.

He couldn't look back through his experiences of the past few days to try and anchor himself to reality. He couldn't think of what happened before, about the prison... about his dad.

The thought of seeing his dad's head separate from his neck only made him breathe faster, and he felt hands come to his shoulders. They pinned him down as more voices lifted above him.

"We're trying to help you!"

"What's wrong with him?"

"He needs epinephrine."

"He... he has asthma."

"You could have told me that before!"

All the voices were muffled and clouded in his ears, he couldn't decipher one from another. He didn't have time to look around and greet whoever had joined him because he was too busy trying to breathe.

The invisible chains that once held his body down, became real, in the form of hands gripping his shoulders and wrists. They stopped him writhing on the mattress, squirming. On top of that, plastic was pressed to his cheeks and the bridge of his nose - digging into his skin and catching the edges of his eyes.

"N-" he couldn't even speak, because as he did, they only held him down more and his chest only panged with a sharp pain, even more. He did not think it was possible to feel this way or to feel like you're drowning despite being bone dry on a creaky mattress.

The air sucked through his nose, and suddenly a soft cloud of relief washed over his body after Dr. Edwards had pressed firmly on the inhaler, letting out a sharp sound and mist throughout the nebuliser. Isiah's body welcomed it, each muscle relaxing as Edwards steadily pressed the pump one more time.

Beth watched her brother anxiously from the other side of the bed, furrowing her brows at the sight of his pale skin. She urged to reach for his hand, but her hands shook so much that she could not woo her muscles to move even an inch from where she was standing.

Isiah's eyes fluttered, taking in the daylight and falling dust in front of him. Each breath was heaven-sent, and each pump of his blood felt anew in his cold body. His lungs warmed, they rested, and soon enough he was back to breathing like most of the people in the world.

It was like being pulled from the water, slapping graciously to the ground in a pile of ache.

All hands were taken from his body, the chains were broken, and he could finally make out who was around him and who he should try to be afraid of.

"Isiah?" Beth's small voice was the welcoming he got, and his eyes instantly but slowly drifted to his younger sister. His body reached out to her, wanting comfort from someone he loved and knew above all else.

It was all coming back to him, about what had happened after the prison fell. He remembered running beside his sister and Daryl.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


｡･:* _:･ﾟ★,｡･:_ *:･ﾟ☆  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Isiah held her hand tightly in his, swerving down the open window and looking over his shoulder to make sure she was following. The grip he had was only one way he knew she would be beside him._

_"Come on," his voice echoed in his own ears, anything to distract himself from the fact that Daryl had basically instructed them to abandon him. After finding the front door was being knocked by the dead, he told them to bolt and for Isiah to look after his sister._

_It had been that way - cliche, yes. It was Daryl and Isiah who had taken the lead because it was just a fact that Beth was young and she was naive._

_"But, Daryl," Beth's voice was desperate, and she breathed heavily in the slightly warm evening air._

_"He told us to go," they ran as fast as their legs could carry them, ducking under branches and hitting any obstacle that came in their way. "That son o' bitch knows what he's talking about!"_

_Isiah used his other hand to clutch his chest tightly, looking wildly forward._

_And soon they came to a road - walkers circling their tired bodies left and right, Beth and Isiah stood together on the side of the road, praying to all things holy they could be saved one way or another._

_Isiah saw an opening in the cluster, taking no chances as he left forward through the gap. And right into the middle of the road, where no walker could catch him up._

_And then there was a moment, as the man turned on his heel because for a split second he had forgotten not to be selfish. To not try to survive all by himself, because there was actually people in this world that cared about him; and there were people he cared about._

_His sister appeared at the corner of his eye, just as a bright light cast his cheekbones, and he couldn't help but turn towards it. Like a moth to the flame, his eyes widened as the car came into contact with his body._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


｡･:* _:･ﾟ★,｡･:_ *:･ﾟ☆  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Beth?" the man tried to sit up, groaning loudly. He noticed his leg was heavy, specifically the right.

Beth rushed towards him, hooking her arms around his body and tightly hugging him close. Isiah did not resist to hug her back, to hold her close, pushing his face into the weird smelling blue scrubs she wore. "Thank god," he whispered tearfully, shaking in his sister's hold.

Nothing else mattered in that moment, except the fact that he was not alone and he was with someone. He briefly closed his eyes, letting water paint his cheeks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


｡･:* _:･ﾟ★,｡･:_ *:･ﾟ☆


	2. services

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning! : rape/sexual assault

**_ISIAH HAD SEEN_** his face a million times in his life. It was the same face, nothing special about it. Dark honey eyes, surrounded by purplish skin. Deep-seated and big, a part of his starry-skied skin.

This was the same face. A tired one, with hollow cheeks. He was almost unrecognisable to the one person who had seen his face the most - himself.

The water swirled red between his fingers, as he rubbed furiously at the cuts that littered his hands. His skin turned raw, micro parts of himself sinking to the bottom of the basin. His entire body was bruised and tender, a beating from a moving vehicle would do that to you.

A slow breath shook from his lips, as he tried his best to stand on his own two feet. The only thing keeping him up was the stare that burned into his skull, he could tell she had no problem in keeping a close eye on him.

Dawn Lerner, he had finally learnt her name - she had escorted him away from his hospital room, to another where he could change from the flimsy hospital gown to the blue hospital scrubs his sister was also adorned with.

He felt intruded upon. It was almost as bad as those needles that had been stuck beneath his skin. Dawn didn't let up in her stair, and he cast a look in the mirror just as he was scrubbing his neck of leftover dirt.

"You got a problem?" Isiah looked over his shoulder, leaning all his weight onto the counter. Something was up with his leg; the right one to be exact. It was difficult to walk on, and his thigh had an everlasting burn that ran up his legs like tightening vines.

The woman glanced down at her arms that crossed over her chest. "I hope not." There was a guarded tone to her voice, and he gave that to her since she only knew his name and not what he had been through. Unless his sister had divulged what insidious situations they have been through, he would at least try to give her the benefit of the doubt when it came to how she should approach him.

He just didn't like the way she looked at him.

Isiah had always been hyper aware of the eyes that passed him a glance. What they were looking at, or maybe even looking for. Since he was a young teenager, he didn't seem to fear what people saw but more of what they thought of it. He wasn't very accepting of his own self, so he couldn't fathom anyone else doing so.

Isiah finally spoke up once again, as he realised there had been a long pause between them. "I'm Isiah Greene." The woman nodded knowingly. "Wa-- was there another guy with us?"

She only shook her head, leaning back into the doorway as to herd him out of the room but the man opposite her needed more information.

"What is this place?" A sense of dread tore its way into his words, and he felt weak under her stare.

"It's safe," her words were more rushed than before. "You earn what you take. We've used up valuable resources on you to keep you alive, so now you owe us."

Isiah rose his eyes to her face, an aghast expression. "Your people hit me with a car, and you think I owe you my services?"

"That was an accident."

The man shook his head, laughing to himself for a split second. "An accident? I was in the middle of a road, and I seem to remember them speeding up just as they tore a freaking car right into my crotch."

He didn't much know why, but he swore he could see a ghost of a smirk on her lips for at least a second. He wanted to stress how much he wanted to just leave, but the clean hallways and locked windows struck a cord in his chest telling him that this was a prison.

It threw up walls in his head, and his skin rose in goosebumps as a chill ran up his body.

"What do you want me to do?" He finally asked, bringing a hand to his hair before clutching his elbows tightly against his body.

Dawn stepped back and forth, before approaching the taller person. She hooked her thumbs in the loopholes in her trousers, her icy gaze analysing him. "Keep order. Do your part."

Isiah clenched his jaw. "My part, okay. When can I-- me and my sister leave."

Her voice was soft and hard at the same time, constantly carrying a sense of sociopathy yet sounding like she wanted to scream all at once. "When you no longer owe us. Everything has a price."

Isiah took a moment, fingering a scar on his forearm - a nervous tick he remembered Daryl had pointed out. His neck ached as he strained to look down at her, and watch the way she stood absolutely still.

And he nodded, pressing his lips together, feeling how dry they were. His throat ached, and his neck pained. He wished he could be numb - it's all he ever thought about most of the time.

He never thought he was ever the best he could be; he knew that he could have been. He just wasn't. That's what haunted him.

He could be so much better.

Dawn gave a gesture back, before walking over to the doorframe she was once leaning on and waiting for him to follow.

Isiah lifted himself from leaning on the sink, pressuring all his weight on his left leg as he let his right drag behind him like a phantom limb. A sudden sense of deja vu hit him, and he felt his eyes prickle with hot tears. So he rose a hand to his cheeks, wiping furiously at ones that never fell.

The hallways in front of him were almost so void of sound, Isiah could hear his own heartbeat. He felt it in his fingers, all the way down to his toes.

After all the venturesome looks he had cast this place, it was only just then that he figured out it was a hospital.

Dawn's shoes clicked down the walkway, and he followed slowly after her. Isiah clutched all he had to himself, feeling the fabric of the scrubs in his calloused hands. They were rough and faded. He felt like he could disappear within them.

Once again disappointing himself.

He didn't know she had stopped walking until he almost ran into her back, but he drew in a breath before he could make contact. It was then he noticed her looking into a room, and he followed her eyes.

His sister stood in the middle of it, a look of discomfort on her face - so much so that Isiah could feel himself almost tugging his body into the room.

He looked at her stitches, deep gashes in her cheeks held together taught. Isiah had a matching set, yet his bruises won that competition.

The man felt his chest quiver until dawn spoke up.

"Gormon," she ordered, tilting her bead.

He didn't hear what the man said, still too focused on his sister. She didn't meet his eyes, instead, casting them down to the floor where her tattered sneakers stood - fiddling with the loose parts of the cast that captured her wrist.

They didn't get to say a single word to each other, not even as Gormon backed away from her with a skip in his step.

Isiah had no idea who this person was, but he was slowly developing an extreme and poisonous dislike for him. So much so, that he felt the need to look him in the eyes and possibly try to threaten him - but his usually defiant nature was buried deep within his injuries.

As soon as the man came face to face with him, Isiah looked to dawn.

She nodded her head towards the Greene son, once again being the only voice he heard lately. "Your new ward, Isiah."

He grimaced as she butchered his name. She had pronounced it iz-a-yah. Eye-zay-ah was the corrected version.

But he imagined that maybe if no one referred to him the right way, he could find some sort of escapism. Like it's not him - they're wrong.

Gormon lifted and eyebrow, twirling the sour apple lollipop in his hand between his fingers. His eyes raked over the young man, not saying a single word as Isiah kept his eyes downcast. Like a wounded dog.

"Well," he started. "Follow me, Isiah." Gormon brushed his shoulder against him, popping the candy in his mouth once more.

Said man looked at his sister once more, and she had her eyes trained on the doctor in front of him. Something horrible swirled inside him, as he had no clue if she was avoiding his eyes or if she was simply not looking.

Isiah turned on his heel, catching his gaze on the police officer in front of him; the way he so nonchalantly seemed to skip along the hallways. The only sounds being their footfalls and the disgusting sound of him swirling the sour tasting thing around his mouth.

Something daunting strikes all the sounds Isiah can hear, telling him to turn back and run. But there's no possible way he can do that, with his asthma, panicked thoughts, and purpling body.

Gormon never looks back, just presumes that the younger is following.

Isiah has no idea where he's taking him, just that everything inside was screaming for him not to follow. Like his body was only born for certain paths, and this wasn't one of them.

And then they come to a door, the officer stopping suddenly to reach out for the handle, turning it and opening into a room.

The Greene son faltered at the lip of the doorway, his chest shuddering under the others stare. He could almost feel his ribs cracking again like the car had hit him once more.

"This is my room, you'll clean it," Gorman said quietly. He had expectations to be met, and he never presumed you couldn't follow through.

He seemed like a boy now, and the boy still stood at the doorway, leaning his palms on the faded structure. "Now?" He asked in a small voice. He now knew the colour of Gormon's eyes - they weren't of any shade, except predatory. Like a great white shark, always moving forward.

"No," the man replied, slowly shaking his head. He took a bold step forward, only earning the boy to take one the other way. "Now don't be like that," he teased, waving a hand towards him; to almost usher Isiah further towards him.

He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, as he trained his pupils to the hand that moved out to him. He had no idea of the intentions. They could be completely harmless - or hidden with a definite cruelty.

So when Isiah didn't step towards the other, gormon walked to the door and slammed it shut. He rose a hand and pushed the boy, almost sending him to the ground as Isiah grabbed his own hip and hissed into the silent air.

Isiah seemed to pale more than usual, choking out as Gormon stalked towards him. He noticed the way he fingered the leather of his belt.

So he gulped, turning away and letting his lips quiver.

"You're not much of a talker, huh?" Gormon voice echoed off the walls, and the shuffling of fabric was the only other thing heard. "Are you a fighter?"

The only answer he could give was his inability to move, his hands falling open as his sides as he realised he had made sharp indents at the curve of his palm.

Even though Isiah was an inch taller than the man, his slouch made him small. It made him seem like he could be bent and broken to anyone's will. And maybe he could - maybe that's the only thing he was worth for.

He could feel the officer's presence, and the sudden dread of the wooden desk in front of him settled and fizzed at the bottom of his stomach.

"Is your sister a fighter?" That statement made the brother jerk his head, glancing over his shoulder with a look of fear painting his eyes.

A prolonging panic attack seemed to bubble in his bones, setting alight a dim flame of trepidation.

"I wouldn't mind finding out," he didn't know if he was threatening him, or opening up about his plans - but the thought of sister being his victim, when his job was to protect her suddenly made him speak.

Isiah whispered, looking to the white of the wall in front of him. "I'm not a fighter." A tear escaped his brimming eyes, scorching his skin as it passed over his cheeks and down towards his neck.

He didn't say another word, as he turned to make a look at the man behind him, he felt a hand creep its way between his shoulder blades. It pushed him down, so the side of his face pressed firmly against the hard wood of the desk. And he smelt the sour apple.

So he closed his eyes, feeling the fabrics being stripped from his rear, and he gripped the tabletop when cold air rushed its way up his bruised legs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


｡･:* _:･ﾟ★,｡･:_ *:･ﾟ☆


End file.
